Angelic Intercession
by HelloJudy
Summary: If you fall asleep while praying the rosary, an angel will come and finish it for you. On this Thursday night, it happens to be Castiel. One shot.


_Supernatural fic (started 5.12.12, completed 5.25.12)_

_**A/N:**__ I was inspired to write this about a month ago when my family and I were having a rosary crusade. This is based off the tradition that angels will finish your rosary for you if you fall asleep praying._

_My first SPN fic I'm currently working on, "The Book of Daniel," I'm finding is frustratingly hard to write. Really, it's totally kicking my butt. I'm surprised this story came to me at all 'cuz my confidence is so shot. But thankfully it did and had to finish before I continued on with Daniel. Also thanks to my beta Jimj._

_You could say this is Mary Sue or more accurately a Self-Insertion fic. However, I purposely did not name the main character and vaguely described her because I want you dearest reader to imagine yourself in her place. That it's you Castiel visits in the night, laying his hand on your body to fill you with his grace… A gal can dream, right? *wink. Thank you for reading. I hope you like..._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Supernatural & its characters belong to Kripke._

**ANGELIC INTERCESSION**

She lays awake staring at the square moonlit patterns stretching across her bed. Her room is silent, barely even a breeze beyond the windows. She recognizes the quiet beauty the night presents, but instead she's finding the stillness deathly unnerving.

She rubs her eyes more out of frustration than from the weariness around the edges. She's been awake for hours, her pulse drumming a little too fast denying her sleep—the chattering in her mind growing restless as the seconds tick by.

She tosses and turns. Fluffs and re-fluffs her pillow. But to no avail. She squeezes her eyes shut and that seems to make it worse as she's confronted with abstract visions of her own worry; so, she looks up at the moon and is full and bright in the distance. Though far into the sky, it shines like an opaque pearl against the black velvet, a daring invitation to reach up and pluck it from its perch.

Its then she remembers her rosary and digs through the drawer at her bedside.

Her Catholic upbringing taught her to pray the rosary at a very young age. The Marian Devotion is so ingrained in her being that she can't recall a time in her life where it wasn't in her memory.

Yet, now well into her twenties, she seldom prays the rosary.

She still prays often, both the prayers she learned from childhood and the personal conversations with God. But the rosary, for whatever the reason, she fails to keep regularly and squashes the twinge of guilt when she sees her mother offering up her devotion daily.

Tonight she hopes the comforting repetition might placate the thoughts crowding her head. But also, it's the closest thing she can do to connect with something greater than her.

A pearl moon she can actually hold and keep for her own.

She finds the neglected rosary, pink heart-shaped beads polished by the moon wash, and accompanying it fleetingly was the sense of remorse she feels for hiding away something so pretty for this long.

After settling on to her pillow, she gingerly holds the crucifix and begins the first sequence. It comes to her so effortlessly, the string of prayers pouring out in her murmured litany. She reflects on the words that punctuate the stillness, the meaning of each verse already donating a comfort that assures her she's not alone. That someone was listening.

When she approaches the first set of 10 beads also known as a decade, she remembers it is Thursday, the day Catholics reflect on The Luminous Mysteries when praying the rosary.

The pads of her thumb and index finger tally each bead with its corresponding Hail Mary, the garland threading her fingers complementing the solace gradually calming her. The feeling of being lost adrift is retreating, pushed aside by the consoling fact this lifeline would always be within her grasp.

In the midst of accomplishing the second decade, the soothing rhythm begins to lull her to sleep. Her mind is finally quiet and she is losing her grip on each verse, words forget their escape, while others trail off from her lips without context.

Sleep draws her in, but she manages to finish the mystery before she surrenders to its allure.

Castiel had been watching her for sometime now, waiting expectedly for her to drift off.

He had known it would be soon when upon flying through her neighborhood, had seen her prayers rise as smoke would from a chimney. Prayers to the Lord look like sheer gold curling toward heaven, gleaming with the fervency of the supplicant's emotions. He saw others were up late too, offering their petitions. But among the ribbons of gold wafting into the night, he noticed a particular silky stream of prayers waning in their luster. They faded in and out, but because they strained to illuminate, Castiel surmised the producer was quickly dozing off during her relay.

Out of duty, the angel of the Lord swooped down to provide his assistance.

When he had landed, she was still counting her prayers but had readjusted to her side, making her arm jut off the bed, the rosary in her hand dangling like braided vines. He had waited, shrouded by invisibility, at her bedside. He began his work when sleep took her over.

Now he is looking down at her and, to better gauge the depth of her unconsciousness, combs back her hair veiled over her face. A seemingly affectionate gesture, but Castiel lacks such awareness in personal space that any romantic notion does not occur to him.

Her lips are parted slightly, her breath inhaling and exhaling evenly. He also catches a glimpse into her mind where dreams are already in full swing; a random series of nonsensical stories starring herself and nameless people.

Certain he will go undisturbed, he sits on the edge of her bed, the mattress shifting under his weight. He nudges her bare shoulder with professional ease and is mindful to preserve her modesty, as he is aware her form is nude beneath the blanket, the edge of it reaching just above her breasts.

She lays on her back now, her head listless and angled toward him. He takes the rosary from her before reverently placing her hands atop her stomach. He notices objectively that combined with her lax state and the position he set her in, she echoes a portrait similar to Elaine the Fair in her eternal slumber.

He examines the rosary. Out of five decades, he sees she had yet to start the third one. He knows this because his angelic senses can tell how the completed beads glow like moving swirls of gold captured in glass.

To establish the connection, he places his warm palm flat over her heart. He feels it thud lightly through her bare skin but more importantly; he can read her petitions waiting to be lifted up to the Father.

With the rosary in his left hand—thumb poised on the next unlit bead, and the other remaining over her heart, he resumes praying on her behalf and lets his grace flow.

It reaches into her heart, the divine current of liquid energy gathering her petitions as he recites each prayer.

He can feel the weight of every single intention she bears: Gratitude for daily blessings, continual health and protection to those for whom she cares for both near and far from her, guidance towards a purpose she is so desperately at a loss of in her life.

He takes those and all of them occupying her, tucks them away to carry with him up to heaven.

The murmured rhythm of his gravelly voice floats melodically into the bedroom. His arm is draped along her covered torso. His fingertips are curled slightly over her collarbone above where his palm rests. His thumb is snug at the hollow dip of her throat.

If someone were to walk in, they'd see a man with messy dark hair clad in a suit and trench coat. They'd see him sitting close at her side with the same familiarity as that of a paramour who bids goodnight in secret.

If she were to awaken it would be in the comfort of his safe company. If her eyes were to open, she would see his face and be unafraid despite his neutral expression. She'd instantly fall mesmerized under his low gaze, his eyes like the essence of a flame, blue and intense against the silvery shadows of the room.

But all was still during his unhurried, efficient care with his momentary charge and he finishes his task with out interruption among the night silence.

The rosary glows like spinning gold marbles strung together. He opens her hands, and after he stores it in her cupped palms, the radiance ceases, returning seemingly ordinary.

As he was about to take his leave and return to heaven, he feels her stiffen in her sleep. Her head jerks right and she lets out a small, barely audible murmur. His brows knit together with concern when he detects a note of distress in her features. With two fingers to her forehead, he peers into her mind to locate the reason of what disturbs her sleep.

An angel's grace is a powerful thing. When he had delved into her heart to collect her petitions, it had seeped warm and slow like maple syrup throughout her mind and body.

It's not the first time a human translates the beauty of an angel's grace in a dream. For some it's the serenity of lying on a secluded beach, basking in the sun's rays. For others, it's being cradled in a mother's arms, her forehead touching as she whispers adoration in her child's ear.

For her, it was a lover and they had lain in the afterglow of post lovemaking. Castiel discovered that her lover had disappeared the instant the angel's grace receded. And when she had reached for him, only to find the warmth left behind in his wake, her heart broke at the loss.

Taking pity on his charge, he remains as he is, sitting by her waist and then closes his hands over hers.

She softens at his touch, receiving his grace.

He can inwardly observe the pixilated play in her mind; feel her delight and her pulse quicken when her paramour returns to their dream bed.

Castiel's head tilts with clinical curiosity when he recognizes the man wrapping her in his arms. He realizes that she subconsciously identified the vessel the angel's grace radiated from. He sees its Jimmy Novak who trails languid kisses along her neck, who gazes at her full of quiet worship.

For a moment Castiel observes the pair in their blissful intimacy; how odd it is to witness his own visage behave in such a way.

But after Jimmy whispers a desire only meant for her and she responds by placing a kiss on the pronounced Cupid's bow center of his lips, Castiel exits her mind and leaves them to complete the love for which she secretly pines.

He stayed with her through the nocturnal calmness of reality while she indulged in the idyllic dreamscape his grace bestowed upon her.

And when then night acquiesced to the rosy light of dawn, he departed from her side, carrying with him to heaven her special intentions and longings she unknowingly shared in confidence.

Now, she wakes naturally. With a mere flutter of her lashes, she stirs, and once her vision dazed from slumber focuses, she finds her room bathed in the soft blush of morning.

She must have had about four hours of sleep, yet strangely, it was one of the most peaceful rests she had in awhile. She rediscovers the rosary between her hands, which were clasped as if in prayer. She studies it and smiles as it sits a tidy pile of beads in her palm.

Gone is any memory of the illusion her grace-suffused mind wove for her. Yet she sighs content with the pleasant feeling the night bequeathed to her. It kindles a renewed hope for the awaiting day as she slips the rosary under her pillow to ready for the next evening.

Fin


End file.
